


Age of Five

by Bionsena



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bionsena/pseuds/Bionsena
Summary: This is not one of those stories where John Watson gets mistaken for a fool. Well actually he does, but only for a little while. The truth is John Watson doesn't actually exist. In reality there is no such person. He's the invention of a man running from a life he never wanted. A life of power and magic. I own nothing but the idea.





	1. Chapter 1

This isn’t one of those stories where John Watson gets mistaken for a fool. 

Well actually he does. But just for a little while. 

The problem was John Watson wasn’t actually John Watson at all because there has never been such a person.

...

In the beginning there were the Five. These Gods created the world and continued to watch over it and the people they had made to fill it.  
Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna and Saru.

To their special favourites they gave the Gifts of magic, and would on occasion communicate with them. Most of those who wielded such Gifts joined the Priesthood in order to carry out the Five’s work. Great Temples were built over the world where those committed to the Priesthood would come and learn to use their Gifts. The Five would appear to the Priests on special occasions to give guidance.

The Gods vowed to never directly interfere with the world, to allow the people free will and so it was through their Priests they would guide humanity. Unfortunately not even the Five could predict the future. 

As is the way with most humanity though free will is taken advantage of. Some of those with the gift of magic wanted to use it for evil means and threw their gifts back in the gods faces. Once a group of such individuals plotted to destroy the Priesthood and the Temples because they wanted power for themselves and did not wish to serve the Five. Because of their vow not to interfere the Gods could not help and they could not take back the Gifts unless they were asked to.  
They called themselves the Black Death. The Priests banded together to defeat them and were victorious but only after a great deal of damage had been done. Many of the Priests were killed in the process. 

The Five declared that such devastation would not happen again. Each of the Five would choose a Priest that showed themselves over their lifetime to be the most selfless of people and give them Gifts beyond any normal Priest’s imagining, the most important of which would be the gift of immortality. Their gifts would be such that the decision to elevate such a person would not be taken lightly and each God would therefore take it in turns to choose so that they could ensure that their new Priest was loyal to the Gods before the next was chosen. It would be catastrophic if a mistake was made.

They would call them the White.

... 

Jayan was born in 1381 almost forty years after the events caused by the Black Death. He lived a simple life as a farmer’s son before he discovered he had Gifts. He spent the next ten years working his way up the Priesthood’s ranks until he was one of the High Priests.

The events that changed his life happened after he had celebrated his thirty seventh year. A rogue magician set fire to a village to the north of the Temple. After the Priests arrived they found the bodies of the villager blackened and charred. There was nothing left. The sorcerer that had caused it was destroyed.

Jayan saw this devastation and felt such sadness for the people and felt great hatred for the one that had caused it. On his way out of the village he came across a man, severely burnt on the very edge of death. He looked into the man’s eyes and the suffering he saw within made him pause. His Healing Gifts were weak and his magic drained. He could not save this man. Instead he gave him the last of the water that he had been saving for the days ride back to the Temple. Jayan’s throat was thick with smoke and was completely parched. He would be dying for a drink by days end.

The point was that even though the water would not save this man and it would be far more logical to keep it for himself, Jayan could not bear to see any more pain that day. So he gave up his water and then stayed with the man while he died so he would not be alone. 

The next day the God’s summoned all the Priest’s to the temple and to the astonishment of all Chaia stepped forward and named Jayan the first of the White. The Priests had begun to believe that the White were an empty promise the God’s had made and had never thought that one would be chosen. 

As Chaia was the king of the God’s he got to make the first choice and as such Jayan would be considered the leader of the other White when they were chosen.

The very moment Chaia had said his name Jayan could feel himself change. He could suddenly see things in ways he could never have believed. The strands of magic woven into the skin of the world were now visible to him and everything was brighter and fuller because of it. Wielding magic became easy he could pull it from the air with no resistance. He even developed the Gift of flight. Standing thousands of feet in the air he could see the curve of the earth and it was wonderful.  
He vowed to serve the Five forever.

...

Dyara was next almost two hundred years later. She was stern and a little scary at times but Jayan adored her, perhaps in part because he now had someone with whom he could share the burden of being one of the White. Eternal and separate from the rest of the world he was beginning to wonder if he would be forever alone.

Then came Rian and Mairae in the centuries that followed. Four of the five had been chosen and things were good in the world with the White to hold the peace.

However by this point Jayan was over five hundred years old and he was beginning to feel it. The other White did not understand. They were content to watch the world turn but Jayan had seen too much death. Too many people that he watched grow old and die while he stayed the same. He was tired of being exulted as the closest one could get to the God’s while on Earth. Jayan wanted to live but most of all he wanted to love.

So he left. He said goodbye to the others and walked into the world disguised as a normal man and left Jayan the White behind him.

...

‘The White Return to London!’

That was the newspaper headline late in the summer of 2010. John Watson studied it for a long time sitting in his armchair in 221B Baker Street. His new flatmate Sherlock Holmes was sprawled across the couch and was, fortunately for John, staring into space absentmindedly causing a pen to rotate in mid air.  
He hadn’t been in the same country as the White for almost a century and now they were once again in the same city.

This would be interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

He had been John Watson for almost a decade now. He’d spent the better part of the twentieth century trading one disguise for another. He often played the part of a doctor as his healing Gift was now one of his strongest and had quickly become his favourite. After flying of course, but since only the White could do that, he often pretended that healing was his only Gift and that it wasn’t strong enough for him to have joined the Priesthood. 

It was easier to avoid suspicion that way because, although his disguises were easy enough to maintain, the story of Jayan the White’s disappearance had become legendary and the entire world was on the lookout for him.

His disguises had become lax lately. This one looked very similar to himself but was shorter and his hair a faded version of itself. His eyes were duller and he walked with a fake limp.

It got worse when Saru chose the Priestess Auraya as the last of the White in the 1960’s. The only thing preventing the White from being complete was his absence and there was a brief frenzy among the people that the White would never stand together as five. 

Five. The holy number.

The people felt it was a bad omen to have only four White protecting them as all five had now been chosen.

“Why has Jayan gone?” They would ask “What have we done for him to abandon us?”

He spent most of that decade in extremely remote places like the Brazilian rainforest out of shame. He could not return yet, it would be agony after his brief taste of freedom. He was not yet done living amongst the normal people and could not bear to reveal himself in fear of them looking to him with reverence instead of friendliness.

It was almost time to move on again, to become someone else. He’d felt his time as John Watson was drawing to a close especially after he’d been hit by a nasty curse while serving in the army and invalided home. Any normal person would been crippled by such a curse and so he’d had to pretend again. It was a shame really because in actuality Chaia had removed the curse almost immediately. 

Chaia still popped into his head occasionally to make sure he was still alright and to see whether he would come home. Those were Chaia’s words. John wasn’t sure where home was yet.

...

As he pottered around the old bedsit in London and slowly broke contact with all of John Watson’s friends, something utterly remarkable happened. He met Sherlock Holmes.

They met at St Bart’s; introduced by one of those old friends he thought he’d left behind. Sherlock had turned to look at him and it had felt as though he’d looked right through him. Those bright blue eyes had pierced through him as though looking into his very soul. For the first time in over a hundred years he truly felt as though he had been discovered, laid bare as Jayan the White once more. 

The moment had passed but John had been no less amazed as the remarkable man in front of him had thrown the story of his current lifetime back at him. Even the details he’d faked to provide himself with a backstory were spotted instantly and accurately. 

It was entirely exhilarating. He felt more alive than he had in years. So when this new acquaintance assumed he was looking for a new flatmate he jumped at the chance.  
He could afford to be John Watson for a while longer.

...

The next day was at the same time thrilling confusing and slightly alarming. It had started normally; he’d made an awkward impression on his new landlady, who assumed he was gay, and insulted his new flatmate, by calling his stuff rubbish. 

Then Sherlock had invited him to a crime scene for the first time and his life, the life he’d been looking for all this time seemed to fall into place.

DI Lestrade and the rest of the NSY police force seemed utterly baffled to his presence. It wasn’t difficult to assume that Sherlock may have trouble making friends, especially after the cab ride to the crime scene. Sherlock had been utterly stunned when John had called him amazing and had informed him that most would have told him to ‘Piss off.’  
John had to swallow the response that wanted him to tell Sherlock just how unlike other people they both were.

Then things got really interesting as Sherlock proceeded to demonstrate his extraordinary Gift of Sight. He could see things most people would never dream of and his mind moved just as fast as his Gift creating patterns and connecting seemingly random bits of data. He also had a small amount of the Gift of telekinesis and things would revolve around the room so he could study them without contaminating evidence. 

Sherlock then took off and abandoned John at the crime scene and after exchanging a few unpleasantries with Sergeant Donovan who seemed to think those Gifted like Sherlock, whose minds moved faster than their emotions and so could not display empathy as quickly as normal people, were somehow freakish. He would normally have taken the time to educate her but he was tired and wanted to go back to his flat.

He was subsequently kidnapped by a faceless man and his nameless assistant. It was a bit tedious really and not at all frightening. The only interesting part of the ordeal was that his kidnapper seemed to be someone of great influence and his magic was similar to Sherlock’s. So similar in fact that John could only assume that they were related.

Sherlock did nothing to confirm this suspicion and seemed mildly put out that John had not accepted the bribe, as though he had to reassess his opinion of John’s moral character and he had no time for it. He also seemed bemused that John did not mistake him for a murderer upon presenting the pink suitcase.

What followed were some of the strangest events imaginable. Dinner (where he was once again assumed to be gay), a cab chase (with an unimpressed American), a fake drugs bust (were those really eyeballs in the microwave???) and then finally he had to give chase to the mad genius who had apparently gotten into a cab with the murderer. 

Willingly. 

Later he stood by the police tape and watched Sherlock give his statement to Lestrade. This was the first time he had ever killed to save a life. He’d used magic to make his aim true but Sherlock would just assume he was an expert marksman. He smiled inwardly as he watched Sherlock pause mid sentence and turn to look at him as the clues fell into place in his brilliant mind. His new flatmate shook of the police detective and started to walk in his direction.

A warm voice chose that moment to speak to him.

He’s special this one. You like him don’t you? 

He didn’t bother to answer. Chaia could draw his own conclusions. Sherlock Holmes was special and the world was better off with him in it. He would remain John Watson for as long as he was able and keep him safe. The trick would be to see if he could hide his true self from someone as perceptive as Sherlock Holmes or even from his brother as he once again encountered the mysterious kidnapper who it turned out was called Mycroft. Poor sod.

This would be an interesting experiment to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N So John is bisexual in this fic before you ask and prefers to identify as such, so gay is technically incorrect. Things should get more interesting soon but this chapter was all about setting the scene.


	3. Chapter 3

Moriarty was the literally scum of the earth. He would have fit in well with the Black Death. From the moment they had found the pink phone John had felt a sense of foreboding.

Someone is coming.

Chaia whispered to him when the five pips began to sound.

Who?

There was no response but his bad feeling began to get worse. Typical Gods being enigmatic. Sherlock of course was beside himself at the mystery and examined each scene thoroughly with both his eyes and his Gifts.

Then he was kidnapped. Again. It was becoming a fairly common occurrence. The blindfold was ripped off and he came face to face with the elusive Jim Moriarty. This was a man who hated the Gods a man who used magic to get whatever he wanted at the expense of all others just like those ancient sorcerers who wrought such fear and destruction.

One look into his dark soulless eyes nearly sent John reaching for magic, almost made him reach for Jayan the White and only his faith in Sherlock Holmes stopped him. Sherlock would come. That was what Moriarty wanted and so it would happen. 

Being strapped into a bomb and used as a puppet was so humiliating. This time it was his pride he wrestled with rather than his hatred of Moriarty. Like a bomb could have actually killed him. But there was too much to lose. His anonymity, his friends, and the entire life he had built. Once he was Jayan the White again that was all he could ever be. A servant to the Gods to the people. He would have to put away all hope of a normal life.

That was the price of the White, the price he had no longer been willing to pay. He could never fall in love. Could never get married or have children. The Gods came first. He would give up all his powers, his immortality to have what the rest of the world had no matter how much he cared for the Gods. And that just wasn’t an option the Gods would allow him to take. They had been lenient allowing him to take this time to get his head together to refocus on his purpose. 

They would not wait forever however. Sooner or later he would have to return to the White. Huan in particular would insist on it. She was not the most patient of the Five. Someone like Moriarty could never understand the price of magic. All he could see was what he could gain and he had no concept of love. He just hoped that Sherlock Holmes was not the same. 

...

They returned to 221B exhausted and exhilarated. Sherlock was delighted to have discovered the identity of his new nemesis and grimly determined to bring him down. John was just as determined to go to bed and to sleep for the next century. Unfortunately it seemed most of his good luck had run out for the evening, having been used to get him and Sherlock out of the pool without having to reveal his gifts.

Mycroft was waiting for them in the flat. This was not unexpected, however his guest most definitely was. This was someone John had never believed would be standing in the living room at 221B Baker Street. Their visitor was a tall blonde woman in a long flowing robe. The robes of the Priesthood. It also happened to be white.

She radiated power and her face was unchanged by age. It looked the same as the day she had first been photographed in 1963. This was Auraya of the White. Chosen by Saru.

His own powers struggled to break free of the dam he had built to contain them. They wanted to rejoice to announce themselves as an equal to the ones in the room. He had always struggled to be anything other than Jayan in the presence of the other White. Their powers were so intimately familiar, the same signature as his own, and even though he had never met this particular White before it was like being in the presence of a sister.

You could tell her you know. Just send a little whisper into her mind. None of the others would notice.

John ignored the King of the Gods and clamped down on his abilities so tightly it hurt. He could not take that risk. He was glad it was not one of the other three; they would have recognised him at once. He was a damn fool for not making his disguise as different to his actual appearance as possible.

“We wish to thank you Sherlock Holmes, for uncovering the antics of the sorcerer known as Moriarty.”

Her voice was ethereal, both calming and unnerving simultaneously. You could actually hear the Gods speaking through her though they were not in fact present as far as he knew.

Sherlock said nothing as his brother glared at him in warning. Even he was not fool enough to anger one of the White. He gave a stiff nod instead.

“We will deal with him from now on” The Priestess continued “You need not concern yourself with him any longer.”

John almost laughed aloud but decided against it. He was treading on thin ice already and to draw attention to himself was not a good idea. There was no way that Sherlock Holmes would give up the juicy mystery that was Jim Moriarty. His interest had been peaked and the consulting detective had been outwitted. This was not something Sherlock’s ego would allow to go unchallenged.

...

He wasn’t wrong.

They spent the next several months chasing any hint of Moriarty before concluding that he would reappear by himself eventually.

Then came Irene Adler and the Hound of the Baskervilles. John couldn’t stand Irene; she was far too smug for someone with limited Gifts. She was good at invisibility and altering perceptions to make someone think she was more threatening than she really was. But honestly her deduction was sub par at best. If he was honest with himself the main reason he didn’t like her was that she had peaked Sherlock’s interest and a tiny bit of jealously reared its ugly head. She really was full of herself though.

His flatmate pretended that he was vastly uninterested in her supposed death but the violin playing at all hours of the night told a different story. Plus it was more than mildly irritating at 3 am. So when it turned out she wasn’t dead after all John was equal parts relieved and annoyed which probably made him a fairly bad person but he had been alive a very long time and death was just par for the course to him now when it concerned people he barely knew.

He tried not to react to her insinuation that he was in love with Sherlock (because duh) but realised if he wanted to maintain the fiction that he was nice, unassuming John Watson who was perfectly straight then he needed to make a little fuss. 

And then Sherlock disappeared for a few days and apparently Irene Adler was really dead this time. He snuck a peak into Sherlock’s mind fast enough that he wouldn’t notice to check his suspicions were right. They were.

Do they think you a fool? Chaia had asked, wryly amused.

Of course they do. That’s the whole point of the disguise.

The God had made a fairly disgruntled noise and left. He had never really understood the point of John Watson. The less he appeared like his true self the less likely it was he would be discovered so obviously he had to dumb himself down a little. If he demonstrated that he was as smart as Sherlock then people, meaning both Holmes’, would be suspicious.

It was however starting to grate on his nerves whenever Sherlock or Mycroft treated him like a complete idiot. John Watson was a doctor for goodness sakes; he’d had to have had some brains to get through medical school. Jayan was starting to make frequent bids for freedom and he wasn’t sure he could keep him down much longer.

Then there was the incident at the Baskervilles Lab. Sherlock had tried to drug him. Did he have any idea how dangerous that was? Not least because he was one of the White but trying to drug someone with PTSD would have been just as stupid.

Fortunately he had been suspicious of his flatmates sudden attempt to make John a beverage which was so unlike Sherlock he taken another little peak in his head. 

He pretended to drink it anyway and had then done some truly terrific acting if he did say so himself to convince Sherlock that it was working. He felt the sting of betrayal though. He couldn’t believe he done such a thing especially after all that crap about him being his only friend. He had taken advantage of John’s perceived willingness to see the best in everyone and had treated him like a complete fool once again.

He seethed all the way back to London. There was only so much his ego could take before he lost his temper.

...

His temper snapped on a rainy London day standing in front of St Bart’s Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Blimey this was a long one. End of Chapter 3.


	4. Chapter 4

The whole week had been a complete nightmare. This whole thing with Richard Brook and his ridiculous attempt to make Sherlock Holmes into a fake was seriously pissing him off.

Things had moved quickly once they had got started. And as much as Sherlock got on his nerves sometimes with his continued underestimation of John’s abilities he was still someone he considered a friend. His best friend. Plus he was in love with the hare-brained idiot. So when that smug little Superintendent had called Sherlock a freak he’d lost his head for a brief moment.

His nose had made a satisfying crack when John’s fist connected with it. Shortly afterwards he found himself handcuffed to the consulting detective pressed against a car. Then Sherlock had decided to make a break for it a done a mad dash through the streets of London.

He was seriously considering setting the handcuffs alight to hell with it when he ran into Moriarty again. The smug little prick. He took a glance into the man’s slimy little head and felt a little nauseous. That was his plan then, to get Sherlock alone and to threaten him into a false confession by pointing snipers at the people Sherlock cared about most and getting to commit suicide. It was a good plan, definitely safer than having them fight each other as they were fairly evenly matched in the Gift department though Moriarty had an affinity for fire that could be dangerous.

Bastard.

He had faith in Sherlock. He had seen first-hand how the man’s mind worked, how his Gifts helped him to _see_. Right down to what somebody had for breakfast that morning. The problem was, and this is what made Moriarty’s plan so brilliant that this Gift was so rare that most did not believe it existed.

Later when panic took over all rational thought, the idea that one of the snipers had gotten trigger happy and shot Mrs Hudson, someone he liked a great deal, and he’d fled from the hospital with a scathing remark in Sherlock’s direction. He could at least pretend to care for once in his life. What he should have done was check what Sherlock was thinking which is why he was so angry when he was stopped halfway to Baker Street by Chaia’s voice in his head.

_She’s fine. It was a ruse on Sherlock’s part to get you away from the final confrontation._

He seethed all the way back to the hospital and then he saw his best friend standing on the roof. There was no way he would let Sherlock fall. Then there was that thrice damned phone call.

“This is my note. That’s what people do isn’t it leave a note.”

And then Sherlock was dropping and he was running, his magic breaking loose, and he was knocked into by a bike messenger and they both went down. He caught a glimpse into the bikers mind and what he saw there shattered the wall he had put up years ago.

Fury and rage and hurt shattered his disguise at the lengths they were willing to go to, to keep him in the dark. They wanted him to think Sherlock was dead wanted to play on his grief being _convincing enough_ that Sherlock Holmes could hunt down Moriarty’s network by himself. Perhaps one of his motives was to keep John safe but the sheer gall of the concept that he was that weak to need protection was a step too far.

White light erupted throughout the entire street, originating from the bodies on the ground and time quite literally paused in its tracks. Sherlock Holmes was suspended just inches from the ground like a marionette on a string.

John Watson had fallen to the ground but it was Jayan the White who got calmly to his feet brushing dust of his clothes. He was glowing, his eyes blazed golden and he lifted himself and his flatmate high into the air unfreezing time as he went. The world below clattered to life, Mycrofts’ men running into the street in confusion. In a fit of pique and genius he reached out and turned on every screen in London displaying himself and Sherlock live for the whole city to watch. This way he could both tear the consulting detective a new one but clear his name in the process.

And then he turned his body over to the King of the Gods because he couldn’t bear to watch Sherlock’s dace crumple.

**“You dare to take me for a fool Sherlock Holmes. I am Jayan the White. I have watched the passing of centuries. I have seen civilisations burn to the ground and rebuild themselves. You think you can trick me with this absurd farce of yours. I have seen your mind and your intentions along with those of everyone in this city. The only thing fake about you is this pretend suicide. Moriarty is dead and now so are the snipers he had trained on myself, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”**

He reached out his awareness and found the men in question. They died horribly in the space of a second.

“John?” Sherlock spoke his voice shaky.

The man formerly known as John Watson turned a blistering stare on the man he loved.

**“John Watson does not exist. He has never existed. He was a game, a mask that I liked to wear to get the respite from my work that the Gods have so generously allowed me. But no more. You treated me like a gullible idiot and any friendship I believe you might have felt for me has been betrayed. It is time to return to my duty to be Jayan once more and complete the Five White at long last. I shall not stray from my purpose or believe I can have a normal life ever again.”**

And with that he lowered his former friend to the ground and flew high into the sky to grieve for what he had lost. He waited until sunrise the next morning when all of his memories of his former lives had been put to rest. He spoke to the Gods at length and asked their forgiveness for his wayward antics and promised it would not happen again.

Then he returned to Earth. To the Temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N The end of Chapter 4. Only one to go.


	5. Chapter 5

JAYAN RETURNS!

THE FIVE COMPLETE AT LAST!

PRIEST MASQUERADING AS DETECTIVE’S SIDEKICK!

The headlines that day were all about him. He strolled through the temple’s front door with ease, the initiates on duty simply stared with their mouths open.

Though it had been many centuries since he’d last set foot in a temple, the wave of magic was so comforting and familiar that it could have been mere hours. It was like sinking into a warm bath after a long day at work. This, and other temples like it, had once been like home to him. It was odd that after so long avoiding this place he felt safe in it.

The White approached him as a group. The four of them facing him, their faces tense and wary, almost as though they weren’t sure how to greet him. He supposed that was fair. He had abandoned them after all. Auraya had never even met him before, she was the most likely to be sceptical that he had returned. And after that display yesterday they were all likely to be afraid of him, perhaps concerned he’d had some kind of mental break.

He took a step forward, letting his gaze meet each of theirs, hoping that he looked as non-threatening as possible. He stood shoulders lax and with hands in his pockets and smiled warmly at his fellow immortals.

He was a White. One of them.

Dyara, second chosen, leader in his absence breathed a sigh of relief and moved to place her hand upon him and the others relaxed a moment later and did the same. He couldn’t be sure how long they stood there the five of them, simply soaking in the pure euphoria that came from being in contact with each other.

The gods were rejoicing and the whole room could feel it as though they could hear them singing from the heavens. A wave of pure magic enveloped the group as though wrapping them in a cocoon.

…

It couldn’t last of course. Eventually Jayan steered them somewhere more private so they could converse without an audience.

Rian, the most devoted (most fanatical), was the first to ask the question they all knew was coming.

“Where have you been?”

It sounded like a judgement, a criticism, and it was supposed to. He considered fleeing again for a brief moment but he was done being a coward. It was time to be honest at long last.

“I was hiding. Hiding from myself, from you, from the burden I felt I was under. I have no excuses only apologies. For being too weak to shoulder the weight anymore. I crumbled under the pressure, I did not feel I was the leader you deserved and so believed I was leaving you in the hands of someone far better and more capable than I. “

He looked to his oldest companion as he said this. Chosen in her late forties, Dyara was the most even tempered compassionate woman he had ever met. She had been more than capable of leading the White through this period of uncertainty and he had always believed she should have been Chaia’s chosen rather than Huan’s.

“These were the actions of a selfish man, a man who at the time believed that a life outside of service would fill the holes in my life that several lifetimes of duty had carved.  I wanted to live amongst the normal people and feel connected to them.”

He stamped down on the brief flash of agony that flared up at the thought of his foolish attempt to belong outside these walls. He could never belong; it was his destiny to be alone, in this whitewashed prison where he himself was his own jailer.

“I will do my utmost to make it up to those I left behind.”

This promise encompassed not only the White but all of the people whom he should have been helping in the name of the gods.

The people loved the White, but only in the way that music fans loved singers. His extended vacation he had gotten as close as he would ever get and even then he had not been able to be loved. Sherlock had not loved him and no-one ever would.

The White were meant to be above petty things such as love. They were the only permanent companions the others would have. They stayed isolated from the rest of the world, placed above them as the gods had decreed; they could not even care for each other as more than a colleague, as it was far too risky. They could be used against each other. They could never have a life outside service as earthly connections would distract them from their work.

It was sad, Jayan thought; in the end he and Sherlock both would put the work first from now on.

…

For the next six weeks he was true to his word. A more dedicated Priest you would have been hard pressed to find. He travelled the globe healing the sick, helping to end wars before they really begun and assisting in brokering new trade deals. He also took care of the rest of Moriarty’s network waning to wipe every remnant of that monster of the face of the planet.

He returned to the London Temple on a wet and rainy Monday to find Mycroft Holmes in the foyer waiting for him.

He raised an eyebrow in the politician’s direction “How did you know I was coming back today?”

Mycroft had the grace to pretend to look sheepish at least “I had people watching and headed over here as soon as here were reports of you flying over the Channel.”

“I see” He folded his arms and noticed with no small amount of pleasure that the elder Holmes looked a little worried by the action “and how can I help you today Mr Holmes.”

“It’s Sherlock. He’s a mess over what happened between you.”

He bristled internally at the thought of the consulting detective and let a cool mask of indifference slide over his face. He had learnt this from the best.

“Then why, is he not here himself?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably “He’s not really in a fit state to be going anywhere at the moment. Do you not read the papers?”

He hadn’t. He had avoided all media coverage of himself and Sherlock like the plague not wanting to even see pictures of him. He wanted this all to fade into memory so he could pretend it had never happened. A knot formed in his stomach, against his will, concern for his old flatmate coiling like a snake. Was he using again? Refusing to eat? Overworking?

He kept his voice as even as possible “That’s a shame. Unfortunately I can’t help you. Rather busy you know. I wish you luck however.”

Coolly as he could muster he turned and strolled away as though he had better places to be.

…

He’d argued with his conscience and with Chaia, for hours but at three am he found himself hovering by the window of 221B.

He glided through the wards with ease and climbed through the open window. Sherlock was asleep on the sofa curled up like a cat. His older brother hadn’t lied he did look awful. There were shadows under his eyes, his hair was long and unkempt and he was painfully thin. He stood in the moonlit shadow for a moment and watched him sleep and then sat down in his old chair to wait.

Dawn crept through the window a few hours later and the sunlight woke the detective. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and glanced at the chair Jayan was sat in as though it was habit. He flinched violently at the sight of a man that looked like John Watson sitting in it.

They locked eyes for a moment, silence so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

“You haven’t been eating.”

Sherlock cut his eyes to the floor as though ashamed of himself “No.”

His voice was small and broken, none of his usual arrogance or pride and the part of him that was still furious at his former friend vanished and he felt old and tired all of a sudden.

“Idiot.”

The old endearment slipped past his lips during a moment of insanity and he cursed himself for it. A light flickered in those all seeing eyes for just a moment. He found himself on his feet in the next moment and he turned to leave, suddenly wishing he hadn’t come at all. It was too painful.

“John.”

He paused at the name half turning back towards the other man as though his body was hopeful he would say more than just that. He locks gazes with him one last time.

_I love you_ is what he thinks.

“You should eat” is what comes out instead but he knows Sherlock understands what he really means. He hesitates a few seconds more, hoping and wishing, but there is nothing but silence.

This is the last time he’ll come here.

…

He goes away longer this time. Spends five months travelling the globe and by the time he heads back to Britain he feels as though he’s in a better place than before.

Mairae corners him when he gets home. She takes him to the chapel connected to the tower they love in. They hover near the back invisible and he watches stunned as Sherlock Holmes sits in a pew, head bowed as though praying. As far as he knows Sherlock has never prayed to the gods in his life, being one of the few that were sceptical of their existence.

“He’s been here every day since you left” His fellow White tells him. Of all the White he feels Mairae understands his desire to be loved the most. He’s often seen her looking wistfully out of windows at the crowds below and he wonders if she’ll be the next White to ask the gods for time away.

Jayan frowns “Any idea what he’s praying for?”

She shrugs. He thanks her for showing him this and turns to Chaia for guidance instead.

_Would you give up this life to be with him? Give up all of your gifts, your immortality, everything you know and believe in?_

_Why would I?_ He thinks in confusion. _Why I would do that for a man who does not love me?_

_Go to him._ The god tells him.

So he does. Stops Sherlock as he’s leaving the chapel.

“What are you doing here?”

“I asked” Sherlock begins “I asked the gods if they would release you. If they would let you leave.”

“And why” he asks heart in his throat “Would you want that?”

The answer makes his heart sing.

_Yes._ He tells Chaia. _If you’ll let me, I’ll give it all up._

_I’m sorry._ The god tells him. _For forcing this life upon you when you never really wanted it. Forgive me._

And Jayan the White is no more.

…

Sherlock is humming some mindless tune in the kitchen as he mixes together some potentially dangerous compound.

John finishes his latest blog entry with relief and closes his laptop glancing out the window at the large white tower in the distance. He’s never set foot there, he’s not really the religious type but sometimes he wonders when he looks at the huge structure, if he and Sherlock should visit.

He feels like he should say thank you for something. Perhaps for the circumstances that lead him to Sherlock, or maybe for their continued good luck in surviving mad situations. He’s never quite sure.

A mug of tea is slid under his nose and he turns away from the window to nod his thanks to his boyfriend. He glances down at the newspaper he’d moved aside earlier.

LAST OF THE WHITE CHOSEN AT LAST!

PRIESTESS ELLAREEN BECOMES SARU’S CHOSEN.

He feels the slightest pang of sadness for some reason but he shakes it away. For a single moment he feels like he’s forgotten something. Like he should be somewhere else, like this shouldn’t be possible.

He glances over at Sherlock instead and feel compelled to tell him something. Like he had never said it before.

“I love you.”

 And Sherlock just smiles “I love you too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Chaia erased any and all memories of Jayan the White. As far as everyone else knows he never existed. John is just John and nobody else which is what he wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Obviously this is a crossover with Trudi Canavan’s Age of Five trilogy but only in the sense that the background stuff comes from there. If you haven’t read it then I recommend it. I own neither the Age of Five books nor the BBC show Sherlock much to my displeasure. The story however is mine so hands off.


End file.
